I'm betting you have a list of interesting people whose faces and personalities still stand in vivid colors against the misty backdrop of passing time. Their lingering effects are indelible.
Mine include people who affected who I am today in ways as deep they are varied.
Grandfather Art Hammerschmidt took great delight in mischief. Nothing seemed to please him more than getting to his wife, Junie, in rascally ways that left everyone but her laughing.
For instance, he'd promise Junie he wouldn't spoil the evening meal by sneaking off with the grandkids, then load us into his red pickup and go rumbling out the driveway toward a bowl of white beans and cornbread down at the popular beanery. All the while, he'd be enticing me to peek inside the glove compartment, a fascinating place for children, where he kept a stash of red and black licorice, along with Beemans gum.
Art should have been every child's grandfather. He enjoyed grabbing a towel and chasing squealing kids around the house, snapping at their bottoms all the while uttering his whispery "Hee, hee, hee." Plopping beside him on the couch could mean I'd find a silver dollar suddenly appearing on my knee in what had to be magic. It was him leaving his lifelong impression.
I also can still see the older woman named Jean Young, who'd been my Realtor during the teaching years at Ohio State. She was always available to offer a sympathetic ear for any problem that arose. The greatest gift she left me was advice to "always head for the water and sit for an hour beside it when troubles and worries arise. The ripples and sunlight playing on moving water can soothe and calm the heart and mind."
Two who loom largest from high school memories in Harrison were tobacco-chewing football coach Hulen Quattlebaum and paddle-happy history teacher Charlie Jenkins. The colorful Quattlebaum taught me it was possible to sweat buckets for two hours of August practice and somehow survive on a six-ounce Coke bottle of tap water from the hose. Jenkins proved virtually every teenaged male student could hold up to an onslaught of brutal butt smacks from a wooden paddle always administered in front of the class.
During college years at the University of Central Arkansas, philosophy Professor Patrick Murray and journalism professor Dean Duncan each had lasting impacts on my life and worldview. In his easygoing manner, Murray (later an Episcopal priest) challenged me to think beneath the veneer of life to seek the causes behind what was seen. He used everything from wisdom found in the funny papers to having my class explain to him why he could see that angel perched atop the administration building when we couldn't. Always seek the whys in life.
Dean made me (and so many others) appreciate the richness and endearment of eccentricities. Through a naturally humorous manner, he showed me how one person can reach deep inside the hearts and minds of so many others to achieve positive influence. His perpetually wrinkled cat-hair-covered sport coat left deeper impressions than any tux I've ever seen. Dean's intelligence was obvious, shining like a 200-watt bulb through the thin shade of his quirkiness and wholly unpretentious good nature. Plus, he was the one person who through his actions and belief in my abilities instilled enough confidence at 19 to enter this craft as a career.
I can safely say this man with a wry smile, dry wit and way about him that drew all who knew him close to his spirit remains one of life's most relevant people for many others across Arkansas today.
A lengthy career in the newspaper business has brought many interactions. Two stand out above all others: Orville Rick Richolson, my first publisher in Newport at the Daily Independent, and Walter Hussman Jr., who, when we both were 26, had enough faith to make me the first editor he hired.
Rick was a pipe-puffing man with a big smile and easy laugh who trusted me with the opportunity (a whole month out of college) to select, write, photograph and even lay out the day's paper. He and his wife, Betty, left on a two-week vacation three days after hiring me. Rick forced me to learn all the ropes as fast as a human could possibly learn.
I knew when Walter offered me the job as editor of the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record in 1973 that his view of journalism meshed with my own: "Just go out and tell the truth without friends to favor or axes to grind."
That shared philosophy, combined with his willingness as publisher to always stand firmly behind me, served to further boost my confidence and resolve. I especially recall him sitting in his office one day after I'd tied down a big story of local political corruption but the paper's cautious lawyer still had advised us not to publish. "You know, it strikes me," he said, "if lawyers ran daily papers, we'd never publish much. Let's run it." And we did, followed by many more.
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Mike Masterson's column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected].
Editorial on 07/31/2016